


a hiding place when spring marches in

by Amber



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-31
Updated: 2009-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part of moving into the ante-chamber outside Arthur's room is the fact that every time Merlin wants a wank he has to consider the fact that the Crown Prince of Camelot is only a boot's throw away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hiding place when spring marches in

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jeeps. Title from Tori Amos's "Icicle".

The best part of moving into the ante-chamber outside Arthur's room is that Merlin doesn't have to take on all those stairs every morning, doesn't have to miss out on half-an-hour of sweet, sweet sleep just so he has time to get himself ready and race to Arthur's rooms, sometimes stopping by the kitchens on the way if he's been particularly lazy and overslept by– well, it only ever _feels_ like ten minutes, at least until he skids to a stop in front of Arthur's chambers to find him pulling on a gauntlet with an unsurprised sort of eyebrow-raise, and then he feels like he's _days_ tardy.

Come to think of it, that might have been the reason Arthur had made him move into the room in the first place. Arthur, the bastard, has some sort of in-built need to wake with the dawn, probably drilled into him after years of early-morning training exercises and meetings and "getting the most out of the daylight" as Gaius liked to tell him. So although Merlin's legs are thankful he doesn't have to take three flights of stairs every morning and night, the worst part of moving into the ante-chamber outside Arthur's room is that it's much easier for Arthur to ensure Merlin's consistent punctuality. Usually by way of a well-thrown boot. Or a goblet of cold water. Or–

All right, that's a lie. Arthur never throws hard enough to bruise, and he probably thinks a bit of a morning splash is good for you given all the bloody baths he takes, and Merlin doesn't _really_ begrudge him wanting his servant up and ready to fetch his breakfast, or he doesn't once he's properly awake and thinking rationally, anyway. The worst part of moving into the ante-chamber outside Arthur's room is the fact that every time Merlin wants a wank he has to consider the fact that the Crown Prince of Camelot is only a boot's throw away.

It's not like Merlin wanks all the time. Maybe when he'd been a little younger, back in his village, things had become a little dire and he'd wondered if he'd have to glue his hands to something just to keep them off his dick, but these days it's more for fun than any sort of urgent need. Sort of stress relief, because it gets stressful being Arthur's servant and Gaius' dogsbody and Camelot's secret protector and, not to mention, a rather powerful sorcerer. And despite Arthur's gleeful insinuations about Merlin and Gwen, or Merlin and Morgana, or Merlin and whatever young lady had spoken more than two words to him within Arthur's hearing (Merlin sometimes wondered if he were being _deliberately_ obtuse, talking about Merlin and girls) there weren't actually a lot of options besides his good right hand. Or, if Merlin were to be honest with himself, any other options at all.

He managed to hold out for the first couple of weeks, though he did have a bit of a go when he was out by himself in the forest, collecting herbs for Gaius, and that took the edge off. And another one in the hayloft when he was meant to be mucking out the stables, and he'd almost been caught by Jim the apprentice stablehand. But it was still only twice, and never right when he wanted it, at the end of a long day with the promise of gentle dreams ahead.

There's a door, of course, in between his little room and Arthur's, but Arthur prefers it left open a little; he claims his chambers get stuffy otherwise. And every night for a fortnight Merlin stares at the dark crack of the open door, achingly hard and unable to bring himself to do anything about it. Then he starts wondering why he's so reluctant.

What would Arthur do if he overheard, anyway? Once Gaius had walked in on Merlin, and instantly turned around and walked right back out. They'd never spoken of it again. Embarrassing, but it hadn't exactly scarred him for life. But Arthur's different. Merlin pictures Arthur, lying back on his bed with all the fluffy pillows he needs to cushion his massive ego. Shirtless, because the nights are warm lately. Or– naked, even, completely unclothed beneath the cool linens. Merlin swallows, hard, and shifts on his pallet.

In his mind's eye, Merlin sees that Arthur is awake, the moonlight casting shadows over the planes of his face, his eyes just a sliver of sapphire. His head is tilted slightly, ear cocked towards the door of Merlin's room, which exposes the long line of his neck. One of his huge, calloused hands is restless, drifting over his chest and rumpling the sheets, brushing down the coarse hair of his chest to tweak a nipple. Arthur gasps. In the dark of his room, so does Merlin.

Merlin's own hand is wandering, slipping beneath his night-clothes until he can grasp his erection. At first he just holds it, trembling, his whole body tensed. Then a long, slow stroke, hot and dry, and he wants to close his eyes but he can't stop staring at the door, can't stop imagining Arthur doing the same thing in his own bed.

His cock would be beautiful, Merlin thinks, with only the slightest reverence, and he wouldn't be afraid to make as much noise as he wanted.

Unlike Merlin, who's biting down on his lower lip as he begins to stroke himself, rapid little pumps of his fist. Each downstroke seems to stab pleasure through his cock down to his balls, reverberating through his belly. It's not quite– there's too much friction, and he lets go, cock slapping wetly against his stomach, and brings his hand to his mouth. He licks a flat tongue over his palm right up the length of his own fingers. Arthur, he thinks, would have oil.

His hand's better, wet, and he thumbs over the head to collect the precome gathering wetly there. Imagines doing the same to Arthur, maybe licking it, with his mouth, and has to push the side of his face into the pillow and squeeze himself too-hard. There are little noises getting stuck in his throat, little noises that want to be deep and needy groans.

The next few strokes are like lightning and he has to suck in a deep breath and hold it, clenching his teeth together and bearing down until he's dizzy with lust and lack of air. Then he lets it out in uneven shudders, slowly and desperately silent, and does it all over again.

Filthy images are bursting behind his eyes, and he has to squeeze them shut; not just Arthur wanking but Arthur touching Merlin, Arthur reaching one strong arm around him and jerking his cock, just like this. Arthur on his knees before Merlin, the hard line of his mouth softened as he takes Merlin's – Merlin clutches his balls, can't stop a whine from sliding out with his breath – takes Merlin's dick in his mouth, just the head, and he's _sucking_ and he _wants it_ and he's _Merlin's_ and yes, yes, yes.

Merlin lets out something like a sob, Arthur's name sliding over his tongue and shaping his lips and barely muffled by his pillow. There's nothing but his dick burning in his hand, pleasure straining his body to breaking point and then the final burst of release as he comes, feeling the relief of it right down to his toes, spurting warm mess over his stomach and nightshirt.

After lying, panting and floppy-limbed, for what feels like an age, Merlin wipes himself off with the rough woollen blanket, adjusts his clothes perfunctorily, and drifts easily into sleep.

The next morning, Arthur wakes him up with a goblet of water to the face and the sky's only just gone pink outside and Arthur's only in his leggings and Merlin thinks, maybe moving into the ante-chamber isn't so bad after all.


End file.
